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He stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "How'd you get so wise?"

"Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy." I grinned. "Plus I've got this hot tactical expert explaining the difference between good control and bad control."

"Hot, huh?" A smile finally tugged at his lips.

"Smoking," I confirmed, then squeaked as he pulled me closer. "But we're supposed to be negotiating!"

"We are." His lips brushed my ear, making me shiver. "I'm establishing that praise kink you mentioned."

"Evil," I gasped, then forced myself to pull back.

"So, we come to the complicated part." Tyson shifted me off his lap gently, and I mourned the loss of contact as I settled back in my own chair. He tapped the pen against the legal pad, expression turning serious again. "Keeping this from the club."

"Duke's rule." The words tasted bitter. "Stupid Duke and his stupid overprotective rules."

"He's looking out for you in his way." But Tyson's jaw tightened slightly, telling me he wasn't thrilled about it either. "Still, it means we need protocols. No public displays at the clubhouse. No letting anyone suspect—"

"So I can't call you Daddy at church?" I asked, widening my eyes innocently.

"Lena."

"Kidding!" I held up my hands in surrender, then grinned. "Mostly. Though the look on Thor's face would be worth it."

"Thor would help hide my body after Duke murdered me," Tyson said flatly. "Slowly. With extreme prejudice."

"Fair point." I pulled my feet up onto the chair, hugging my knees. "But seriously, how do we handle this? The wedding prep alone means I'm surrounded by the club for weeks. All those events, fittings, parties . . ."

"We maintain cover. Professional distance in public." His eyes met mine, heat flickering in their depths. "But in private . . ."

"In private, I'm yours," I finished softly, feeling the truth of it settle into my bones. "If that's what you want."

"You know that’s what I want." No hesitation, no doubt. The certainty in his voice made me shudder.

"Good." I cleared my throat, trying to refocus despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach. "So we need rules for public behavior."

"Baseline professional friendliness," he said, making notes. "Same as we've maintained for years. I'm security, you're the club tattoo artist. Nothing more in public."

"No lingering looks?"

"Not where anyone can see."

"No accidental touches?"

"Have to be careful." He grimaced. "Though that'll be the hardest part. Now that I've had my hands on you . . ."

"Yeah," I breathed, remembering the weight of his palms on my hips. "Same."

We stared at each other across the table, the air thick with want and frustration. This was going to be torture—being near him but not able to touch, to kiss, to show the world he was mine.

"The wedding will be the biggest challenge," I said finally. "I'm literally in the wedding party. You're running security. We'll be in the same space for hours. All up close and personal."

"Lena." His voice had dropped an octave, rough with warning. "You're playing with fire."

"Maybe I like fire." But I relented at his expression. "Okay, okay. Professional distance. I'll be good."

"Will you though?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because your definition of good and mine might differ."

"I'll try to be good," I amended. "But you know . . . stress makes me bratty. And weddings are stressful. All those people, all that pressure to be perfect . . ."